IV.

THE MONASTERY OF ST. FELIX.

Thus long had Roderick heard her powerful words In silence, awed before her; but his heart Was fill’d the while with swelling sympathy, And now with impulse not to be restrain’d The feeling overpower’d him. Hear me too, Auria, and Spain, and Heaven! he cried; and thou Who risest thus above mortality, Sufferer and patriot, saint and heroine, The servant and the chosen of the Lord, For surely such thou art, ... receive in me The first-fruits of thy calling. Kneeling then, And placing as he spake his hand in her’s, As thou hast sworn, the royal Goth pursued, Even so I swear; my soul hath found at length Her rest and refuge; in the invader’s blood She must efface her stains of mortal sin, And in redeeming this lost land, work out Redemption for herself. Herein I place My penance for the past, my hope to come, My faith and my good works; here offer up All thoughts and passions of mine inmost heart, My days and night, ... this flesh, this blood, this life, Yea, this whole being, do I here devote For Spain. Receive the vow, all Saints in Heaven, And prosper its good end!... Clap now your wings, The Goth with louder utterance as he rose Exclaim’d, ... clap now your wings exultingly Ye ravenous fowl of Heaven; and in your dens Set up, ye wolves of Spain, a yell of joy; For, lo! a nation hath this day been sworn To furnish forth your banquet; for a strife Hath been commenced, the which from this day forth Permits no breathing-time, and knows no end Till in this land the last invader bow His neck beneath the exterminating sword.

Said I not rightly? Adosinda cried; The will which goads me on is not mine own, ’Tis from on high, ... yea, verily of Heaven! But who art thou who hast profess’d with me, My first sworn brother in the appointed rule? Tell me thy name. Ask any thing but that! The fallen King replied. My name was lost When from the Goths the sceptre pass’d away. The nation will arise regenerate; Strong in her second youth and beautiful, And like a spirit which hath shaken off The clog of dull mortality, shall Spain Arise in glory. But for my good name No resurrection is appointed here. Let it be blotted out on earth: in Heaven There shall be written with it penitence And grace and saving faith and such good deeds Wrought in atonement as my soul this day Hath sworn to offer up. Then be thy name, She answer’d, Maccabee, from this day forth: For this day art thou born again; and like Those brethren of old times, whose holy names Live in the memory of all noble hearts For love and admiration, ever young, ... So for our native country, for her hearths And altars, for her cradles and her graves, Hast thou thyself devoted. Let us now Each to our work. Among the neighbouring hills, I to the vassals of my father’s house; Thou to Visonia. Tell the Abbot there What thou hast seen at Auria; and with him Take counsel who of all our Baronage Is worthiest to lead on the sons of Spain, And wear upon his brow the Spanish crown. Now, brother, fare thee well! we part in hope, And we shall meet again, be sure, in joy.

So saying, Adosinda left the King Alone amid the ruins. There he stood, As when Elisha, on the farther bank Of Jordan, saw that elder prophet mount The fiery chariot, and the steeds of fire, Trampling the whirlwind, bear him up the sky: Thus gazing after her did Roderick stand; And as the immortal Tishbite left behind His mantle and prophetic power, even so Had her inspiring presence left infused The spirit which she breathed. Gazing he stood, As at a heavenly visitation there Vouchsafed in mercy to himself and Spain; And when the heroic mourner from his sight Had pass’d away, still reverential awe Held him suspended there and motionless. Then turning from the ghastly scene of death Up murmuring Lona, he began toward The holy Bierzo his obedient way. Sil’s ample stream he crost, where through the vale Of Orras, from that sacred land it bears The whole collected waters; northward then, Skirting the heights of Aguiar, he reach’d That consecrated pile amid the wild, Which sainted Fructuoso in his zeal Rear’d to St. Felix, on Visonia’s banks.

In commune with a priest of age mature, Whose thoughtful visage and majestic mien Bespake authority and weight of care, Odoar, the venerable Abbot, sate, When ushering Roderick in, the Porter said, A stranger came from Auria, and required His private ear. From Auria? said the old man, Comest thou from Auria, brother? I can spare Thy painful errand then, ... we know the worst.

Nay, answer’d Roderick, but thou hast not heard My tale. Where that devoted city lies In ashes, mid the ruins and the dead I found a woman, whom the Moors had borne Captive away; but she, by Heaven inspired And her good heart, with her own arm had wrought Her own deliverance, smiting in his tent A lustful Moorish miscreant, as of yore By Judith’s holy deed the Assyrian fell. And that same spirit which had strengthen’d her Work’d in her still. Four walls with patient toil She rear’d, wherein, as in a sepulchre, With her own hands she laid her murder’d babe, Her husband and her parents, side by side; And when we cover’d in this shapeless tomb, There on the grave of all her family, Did this courageous mourner dedicate All thoughts and actions of her future life To her poor country. For she said, that Heaven Supporting her, in mercy had vouchsafed A foretaste of revenge; that, like the grace Of God, revenge had saved her; that in it Spain must have her salvation; and henceforth That passion, thus sublimed and sanctified, Must be to all the loyal sons of Spain The pole-star of their faith, their rule and rite, Observances and worthiest sacrifice. I took the vow, unworthy as I am, Her first sworn follower in the appointed rule; And then we parted; she among the hills To rouse the vassals of her father’s house: I at her bidding hitherward, to ask Thy counsel, who of our old Baronage Shall place upon his brow the Spanish crown.

The Lady Adosinda? Odoar cried. Roderick made answer, So she call’d herself.

Oh none but she! exclaim’d the good old man, Clasping his hands, which trembled as he spake In act of pious passion raised to Heaven, ... Oh none but Adosinda!... none but she, ... None but that noble heart, which was the heart Of Auria while it stood, its life and strength, More than her father’s presence, or the arm Of her brave husband, valiant as he was. Hers was the spirit which inspired old age, Ambitious boyhood, girls in timid youth, And virgins in the beauty of their spring, And youthful mothers, doting like herself With ever-anxious love: She breathed through all That zeal and that devoted faithfulness, Which to the invader’s threats and promises Turn’d a deaf ear alike; which in the head And flood of prosperous fortune check’d his course, Repell’d him from the walls, and when at length His overpowering numbers forced their way, Even in that uttermost extremity Unyielding, still from street to street, from house To house, from floor to floor, maintain’d the fight: Till by their altars falling, in their doors, And on their household hearths, and by their beds And cradles, and their fathers’ sepulchres, This noble army, gloriously revenged, Embraced their martyrdom. Heroic souls! Well have ye done, and righteously discharged Your arduous part! Your service is perform’d, Your earthly warfare done! Ye have put on The purple robe of everlasting peace! Ye have received your crown! Ye bear the palm Before the throne of Grace! With that he paused, Checking the strong emotions of his soul. Then with a solemn tone addressing him Who shared his secret thoughts, thou knowest, he said, O Urban, that they have not fallen in vain; For by this virtuous sacrifice they thinn’d Alcahman’s thousands; and his broken force, Exhausted by their dear-bought victory, Turn’d back from Auria, leaving us to breathe Among our mountains yet. We lack not here Good hearts, nor valiant hands. What walls or towers Or battlements are like these fastnesses, These rocks and glens and everlasting hills? Give but that Aurian spirit, and the Moors Will spend their force as idly on these holds, As round the rocky girdle of the land The wild Cantabrian billows waste their rage. Give but that spirit!... Heaven hath given it us, If Adosinda thus, as from the dead, Be granted to our prayers! And who art thou, Said Urban, who hast taken on thyself This rule of warlike faith? Thy countenance And those poor weeds bespeak a life ere this Devoted to austere observances.

Roderick replied, I am a sinful man, One who in solitude hath long deplored A life mis-spent; but never bound by vows, Till Adosinda taught me where to find Comfort, and how to work forgiveness out. When that exalted woman took my vow, She call’d me Maccabee; from this day forth Be that my earthly name. But tell me now, Whom shall we rouse to take upon his head The crown of Spain? Where are the Gothic Chiefs? Sacaru, Theudemir, Athanagild, All who survived that eight days’ obstinate fight, When clogg’d with bodies Chrysus scarce could for Its bloody stream along? Witiza’s sons, Bad offspring of a stock accurst, I know, Have put the turban on their recreant heads. Where are your own Cantabrian Lords? I ween, Eudon, and Pedro, and Pelayo now Have ceased their rivalry. If Pelayo live, His were the worthy heart and rightful hand To wield the sceptre and the sword of Spain.

Odoar and Urban eyed him while he spake, As if they wonder’d whose the tongue might be Familiar thus with Chiefs and thoughts of state. They scann’d his countenance, but not a trace Betray’d the Royal Goth: sunk was that eye Of sovereignty, and on the emaciate cheek Had penitence and anguish deeply drawn Their furrows premature, ... forestalling time, And shedding upon thirty’s brow more snows Than threescore winters in their natural course Might else have sprinkled there. It seems indeed That thou hast pass’d thy days in solitude, Replied the Abbot, or thou would’st not ask Of things so long gone by. Athanagild And Theudemir have taken on their necks The yoke. Sacaru play’d a nobler part. Long within Merida did he withstand The invader’s hot assault; and when at length, Hopeless of all relief, he yielded up The gates, disdaining in his father’s land To breathe the air of bondage, with a few Found faithful till the last, indignantly Did he toward the ocean bend his way, And shaking from his feet the dust of Spain, Took ship, and hoisted sail through seas unknown To seek for freedom. Our Cantabrian Chiefs All have submitted, but the wary Moor Trusteth not all alike: At his own Court He holds Pelayo, as suspecting most That calm and manly spirit; Pedro’s son There too is held as hostage, and secures His father’s faith; Count Eudon is despised, And so lives unmolested. When he pays His tribute, an uncomfortable thought May then perhaps disturb him: ... or more like He meditates how profitable ’twere To be a Moor; and if apostacy Were all, and to be unbaptized might serve, ... But I waste breath upon a wretch like this; Pelayo is the only hope of Spain, Only Pelayo. If, as we believe, Said Urban then, the hand of Heaven is here, And dreadful though they be, yet for wise end Of good, these visitations do its work; And dimly as our mortal sight may scan The future, yet methinks my soul descries How in Pelayo should the purposes Of Heaven be best accomplish’d. All too long, Here in their own inheritance, the sons Of Spain have groan’d beneath a foreign yoke, Punic and Roman, Kelt, and Goth, and Greek: This latter tempest comes to sweep away All proud distinctions which commingling blood And time’s long course have fail’d to efface; and now Perchance it is the will of Fate to rear Upon the soil of Spain a Spanish throne, Restoring in Pelayo’s native line The sceptre to the Spaniard. Go thou, then, And seek Pelayo at the Conqueror’s court. Tell him the mountaineers are unsubdued; The precious time they needed hath been gain’d By Auria’s sacrifice, and all they ask Is him to guide them on. In Odoar’s name And Urban’s, tell him that the hour is come.

Then pausing for a moment, he pursued: The rule which thou hast taken on thyself Toledo ratifies: ’tis meet for Spain, And as the will divine, to be received, Observed, and spread abroad. Come hither thou, Who for thyself hath chosen the good part; Let me lay hands on thee, and consecrate Thy life unto the Lord. Me! Roderick cried; Me? sinner that I am!... and while he spake His wither’d cheek grew paler, and his limbs Shook. As thou goest among the infidels, Pursued the Primate, many thou wilt find Fallen from the faith; by weakness some betray’d, Some led astray by baser hope of gain, And haply too by ill example led Of those in whom they trusted. Yet have these Their lonely hours, when sorrow, or the touch Of sickness, and that aweful power divine Which hath its dwelling in the heart of man, Life of his soul, his monitor and judge, Move them with silent impulse; but they look For help, and finding none to succour them, The irrevocable moment passeth by. Therefore, my brother, in the name of Christ Thus I lay hands on thee, that in His name Thou with His gracious promises may’st raise The fallen, and comfort those that are in need, And bring salvation to the penitent. Now, brother, go thy way: the peace of God Be with thee, and his blessing prosper us!